The Leopard Prince (5 page)

His cottage stood off the main drive to Woldsly Manor, built, God only knew why, in a little copse. Across the drive was the gatekeeper’s cottage, a much bigger building. He could have turned the gatekeeper out and taken possession of the larger house when he had first came to Woldsly. A steward, after all, was higher in status than a mere gatekeeper. But the man had a wife and family, and, the smaller cottage was farther back from the drive and hidden in the trees. It had more privacy. And he was a man who treasured his privacy.

He swung down from the mare and led her to the tiny lean-to against the back of the cottage. Harry lit the lantern hanging inside the door and took off the horse’s saddle and bridle. Weariness of body and spirit dragged at his limbs. But he carefully rubbed down the mare, watered her, and gave her an extra scoop of oats. His father had drummed into him at an early age the importance of taking care of one’s animals.

With a final pat for the already dozing mare, he picked up the lantern and left the stable. He walked around the cottage on the well-worn path toward the door. As he neared the front door, his step faltered. A light flickered through his cottage window.

Harry put out his lantern. He backed into the underbrush beside the path and hunkered down to think. From the size of the light, it looked to be a single candle. It didn’t move, so it probably stood on a table inside. Maybe Mrs. Burns had left the candle burning for him. The gatekeeper’s wife sometimes came to clean and leave him a meal. But Mrs. Burns was a thrifty woman, and Harry doubted she would waste a candle—even a tallow candle like the ones he used—on an empty cottage.

Someone waited for him inside.

And wouldn’t that be a surprise after arguing with Granville this morning? If they meant to jump him, surely they would’ve taken care to wait in darkness? After all, he hadn’t suspected anything until he’d seen the light. Had his cottage been dark, he’d have gamboled up, as trusting as a newborn lamb. Harry gave a soft snort. So. They— whoever
they
were—were very assured, waiting for him in his own home. They figured that even with the light showing so plainly from his windows, he’d be stupid or brash enough to walk right in.

And maybe they were right.

Harry set the lantern down, took the knife from his boot, and rose silently from his crouch. He stole to the cottage wall. His left hand held the knife by his thigh. Quietly he skimmed along the stone wall until he was at the door. He grasped the door handle and pressed the latch slowly. He took a breath and flung open the door.

“Mr. Pye, I had begun to think you would never come home.” Lady Georgina knelt by his fireplace, looking quite unperturbed by his sudden entrance. “I’m afraid I’m hopeless at lighting fires, otherwise I would’ve made some tea.” She rose and dusted off her knees.

“My lady.” He bent and brushed his left hand over the top of his boot, sheathing the knife. “Naturally I’m honored to have your company, but I’m also surprised. What are you doing in my cottage?” He shut the door behind him and walked to the fireplace, picking up the burning candle on the way.

She stepped aside as he crouched by the hearth. “I fear I detect some sarcasm in your tone.”

“Do you?”

“Mmm. And I am at a loss to understand why. After all, it was you who walked away from me this morning.”

The lady was peeved.

Harry’s lips curved as he lit the already laid fire. “I apologize most humbly, my lady.”

“Humph. A less humble man I have yet to meet.” From the sound of her voice, she was wandering the room behind him.

What did she see? What did this little cottage look like to her? In his mind’s eye, he reviewed the inside of his cottage: a wooden table and chairs, well made but hardly the cushioned luxury of the manor’s sitting rooms. A desk where he kept the record books and ledgers of his job. A set of shelves with some coarse pottery dishes—two plates, two cups, a bowl, a teapot, forks and spoons, and an iron cooking pot. A door off to one side that was no doubt open, so she could see his narrow bed, the hooks that held his clothes, and the dresser with the earthenware washbasin and pitcher.

He stood and turned.

Lady Georgina was peering into his bedroom.

He sighed silently and walked to the table. On it sat a crock covered with a plate. He lifted the plate and looked inside the pot. Mutton stew left by Mrs. Burns, cold now, but welcome nonetheless.

He went back to the hearth to fill the iron kettle with water and swing it over the fire. “Do you mind if I eat, my lady? I haven’t had my supper yet.”

She turned and stared at him as though her mind has been elsewhere. “Please. Do go ahead. I wouldn’t want you to accuse me of withholding food.”

Harry sat at the table and spooned some of the stew onto a plate. Lady Georgina came and looked curiously at his supper and then moved to the fireplace.

He watched her as he ate.

She examined the animal carvings lining his mantel. “Did you make all these?” She gestured to a squirrel with a nut between its paws and glanced back at him.

“Yes.”

“That’s how Lord Granville knew you’d made the hedgehog. He’d seen your work before.”

“Yes.”

“But he hadn’t seen
you,
at least not for a very long time.” She pivoted fully to look at him.

A lifetime.
Harry served himself some more stew. “No.”

“So he hadn’t seen your figurines for a very long time, either? In fact, not since you were a boy.” She frowned, fingering the squirrel. “Because I don’t care what Lord Granville says, twelve years old is still just a boy.”

“Maybe.” The kettle started steaming. Harry got up, took down the brown teapot from his cupboard, and put in four spoonfuls of tea. He grabbed a cloth to lift the kettle from the fire. Lady Georgina moved aside and watched as he poured the boiling water.

“Maybe what?” She knit her brow. “Which question were you really answering?”

Harry set the teapot on the table and looked over his shoulder at her. “Which were you really asking?” He sat down again. “My lady.”

She blinked and seemed to consider. Then she replaced the squirrel and crossed to the shelves. She picked up the two cups and a packet of sugar and brought them back to the table. She sat down across from him and poured the tea.

Harry stilled.

Lady Georgina was fixing him his tea, in his own house, at his own table, just like a country woman would, tending to her man after he’d had a hard day of work. It didn’t feel at all like this morning in her sitting room. Right now it felt wifely. Which was a daft thought because she was the daughter of an earl. Only she didn’t look like a lady at the moment. Not when she was adding sugar to his cup and stirring it in for him. All she looked like was a woman—a very desirable woman.

Damn.
Harry tried to will his cock back down, but that part of his body had never listened to reason. He tasted the tea and grimaced. Did other men get cockstands over a cup of tea?

“Too much sugar?” She looked worriedly at his cup.

The tea was rather sweet for his taste, but he wasn’t about to say that. “It’s fine, my lady. Thank you for pouring.”

“You’re welcome.” She took a sip of her own tea. “Now, as to what I’m really asking. How exactly did you know Lord Granville in the past?”

Harry closed his eyes. He was too weary for this. “Does it matter, my lady? You’ll be letting me go soon enough, anyway.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Lady Georgina frowned. Then she caught his look. “You don’t think that
I
believe you murdered those sheep, do you?” Her eyes widened. “You do.”

She put her cup back on the table with a sharp click. Some of the tea sloshed over the edge. “I know that I don’t always seem very serious, but please acquit me of being a complete nincompoop.” She scowled at him as she stood, arms akimbo like a red-haired Boadicea. All she needed was a sword and chariot.

“Harry Pye, you no more poisoned those sheep than I did!”

“Humph.” Gathering her dignity about her, George marched to the fireplace and pretended interest in the figurines again. “You haven’t yet answered my question. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Normally this would be the point where she’d say something flippant and silly, but somehow she just couldn’t with him. It was hard to put away the mask, but she didn’t want to play the ninny with him. She wanted him to think better of her.

He looked so tired; the lines around his mouth had deepened and his hair was windblown. What had he been doing all afternoon to make him so exhausted? She hadn’t missed the way he’d entered the cottage, suddenly and in a crouch, his green eyes defiant. He’d reminded her of a cornered feral cat. But then he’d straightened and shoved something in his boot and was once again her phlegmatic steward. She might have imagined the violence she’d seen in his eyes, but she didn’t think so.

Harry Pye sighed and pushed away his plate. “My father’s name was John Pye. He was Silas Granville’s gamekeeper when I was a boy. We lived on Granville land, and I grew up there.”

“Really?” George turned to him. “How did you go from being a gamekeeper’s son to a land steward?”

He stiffened. “You have my references, my lady. I assure you—”

“No, no.” She shook her head impatiently. “I wasn’t maligning your credentials. I’m just curious. You must admit it’s a bit of a leap. How did you do it?”

“Hard work, my lady.” His shoulders were still bunched.

George raised her eyebrows and waited.

“I got work as a gamekeeper on a big estate when I was sixteen. The land steward there discovered I could read and write and do sums. He took me on as sort of an apprentice. When a position on a smaller, neighboring estate became open, he recommended me.” He shrugged. “From there I worked my way up.”

She tapped her fingers against the mantelpiece. There had to be more to the story than that. Few men of Mr. Pye’s age managed estates as large as hers, and how had he gotten an education, anyway? But that matter could wait until later. She had more pressing questions at the moment. She picked up a rabbit and rubbed its smooth back.

“What happened when you were twelve?”

“My father had a falling out with Granville,” Mr. Pye said.

“A falling out?” George replaced the rabbit and chose an otter. Dozens of the little wood carvings crowded the mantelpiece, each in exquisite detail. Most were of wild animals, although she spied a shepherd’s dog. They fascinated her. What kind of a man would carve such things? “Lord Granville said your father tried to kill him. That sounds like much more than a falling out.”

“Da struck him. Merely that.” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “I sincerely doubt he meant to kill Granville.”

“Why?” She placed the otter next to the rabbit and made a little circle with a turtle and a shrew. “Why did he attack his employer and lord?”

Silence.

George waited, but he didn’t answer. She touched a stag, standing on three legs, the fourth lifted as if to flee. “And you? Did you mean to kill Lord Granville at the age of twelve?”

The silence stretched again, but finally Harry Pye spoke. “Yes.”

She let her breath out slowly. A commoner, child or not, could be hung for trying to kill a peer. “What did Lord Granville do?”

“He had my father and me horsewhipped.”

The words fell into the stillness like pebbles into a pond. Emotionless. Simple. They belied the violence a horsewhipping would do to a young boy’s body. To his soul.

George closed her eyes. Oh, dear Lord.
Don’t think of it. It’s in the past. Deal with the present.
“So you do have a motive for killing the sheep on Lord Granville’s land.” She opened her eyes and focused on a badger.

“Yes, my lady, I do.”

“And is this story common knowledge in the district?

Do others know you’ve such enmity for my neighbor?” She placed the badger in alliance with the stag. The little creature’s head was lifted, teeth bared. It made a formidable foe.

“I didn’t hide my past and who I was when I returned as the Woldsly steward.” Mr. Pye rose and took the teapot to the door. He opened it and tossed the dregs into the bushes. “There are some who remember what happened eighteen years ago. It was a scandal at the time.” The dry tone was back.

“Why did you return to this neighborhood?” she asked. Was he looking for revenge in some way? “It does seem a bit of a coincidence that you should be working on the estate neighboring the one you grew up on.”

He hesitated with the teapot dangling from one hand. “No coincidence, my lady.” He walked deliberately to the cupboard, his back to her. “I pursued this position as soon as it opened. As you said, I grew up here. It’s my home.”

“It had nothing to do with Lord Granville?”

“Well”—Mr. Pye looked at her over his shoulder, a devilish gleam in his green eyes—“it didn’t hurt that Granville would be irked to see me here.”

George felt her lips lift. “Does everyone know about your carvings?” She waved a hand at the menagerie.

He’d brought out a dishpan and soap, but he paused to glance at the animals lining the mantelpiece.

“Probably not. I’d only made a few carvings when I was a boy here.” He shrugged and began washing the tea things. “Da was known for his whittling. He taught me.”

She took a cloth from the shelf, picked up a teacup Mr. Pye had rinsed, and began drying it. He glanced sideways at her, and she thought she detected surprise. Good.

“Then whoever put the hedgehog by the dead sheep either knew you before or had been in this cottage since your residence.”

He shook his head. “The only visitors I’ve had are Mr. Burns and his wife. I pay her a bit to tidy for me and make me a meal once in a while.” He pointed his chin at the empty crock that had held his dinner.

George felt a rush of satisfaction. He’d not brought a woman here. But then she frowned. “Perhaps you confided in a woman you’ve been walking out with?”

She winced. Not the most subtle of inquiries. Good Lord, he must think her a widgeon. Blindly, she put out her hand for another teacup and collided with Harry Pye’s hand, warm and slippery with soap. She looked up and met his emerald eyes.

“I haven’t walked out with a lass. Not since entering your employ, my lady.” He picked up the crock to wash it.

“Ah. Well. Good. That narrows it down a bit.” Could she sound any more a ninny if she tried? “Then do you know who could have stolen the hedgehog? I presume it was taken from above your fireplace?”

He rinsed the crock and picked up the basin. Carrying it to the door, he threw out the washing water. He caught the open door. “Anyone could have taken it, my lady.” He pointed to the door handle.

There was no lock.

“Oh,” George muttered. “That
doesn’t
narrow it down.”

“No, my lady.” He sauntered back to the table, the firelight illuminating one side of his face and throwing the other half into darkness. His lips curved. Did he think her funny?

“Where did you go this morning?” she asked.

“I went to question the farmers who found the dead sheep and my carving.” He stopped only a foot away from her.

She could feel the warmth of his chest not quite touching hers. Was he staring at her mouth?

He was. “I wondered if one of them had left the hedgehog. But they were men I didn’t know, and they seemed honest enough.”

“I see.” Her throat was dry. She swallowed. He was her steward, for goodness sake. What she was feeling wasn’t at all proper. “Well.” George folded the towel and put it away on the shelf. “We shall just have to do some more research tomorrow.”

“
We,
my lady?”

“Yes. I shall accompany you.”

“Just this morning Lord Granville threatened you.” Harry Pye wasn’t looking at her mouth anymore. In fact, he was frowning into her eyes.

George felt a twinge of disappointment. “You’ll need my help.”

“I’ve no need of your help, my lady. You shouldn’t be gadding about the countryside while . . .” He trailed off as a thought struck him. “How did you come to my cottage?”

Oops.
“I walked?”

“You . . . It’s over a mile from here to Woldsly!” Mr. Pye stopped and breathed heavily in that way some men do when a female says something particularly foolish.

“Walking is good exercise,” George explained kindly. “Besides, I was on my own land.”

“Nevertheless, would you please promise me not to go strolling about on your own, my lady?” His lips tightened. “Until this is over with?”

“Very well, I promise to not go out alone.” George smiled. “And in return, you can promise to take me on your investigations.”

Harry Pye’s eyes narrowed.

George drew herself up straight. “After all, I am your employer, Mr. Pye.”

“Fine, my lady. I’ll take you with me.”

Not the most gracious acquiescence, but it would do.

“Good. We can start in the morning.” George swung her cloak around her shoulders. “About nine, I think? We’ll take my gig.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Mr. Pye advanced ahead of her to the cottage door. “I’ll walk you back to Woldsly.”

“No need. I asked that the carriage be brought round at nine. It should be here by now.”

And indeed, when Mr. Pye swung wide the door, a footman was waiting discreetly by the path. Her steward eyed the man. He must have approved, for he nodded. “Good night, my lady.”

“Until tomorrow morning.” George drew the hood up over her hair. “Good night.”

She walked to the footman and then glanced over her shoulder. Harry Pye stood in his doorway, silhouetted by the firelight behind him.

She couldn’t read his expression.